


(h)Awkward

by missus_e



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action, Comedy, Espionage, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missus_e/pseuds/missus_e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set after AoS 2.16. After leaving "Real SHIELD," Fitz tries to make a run for it on a layover in New York City. But when things go wrong, the only person who can help him might actually be trying to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(h)Awkward

Their first meeting was not exactly what you’d call “good.”

It was a SHIELD function, the kind where you had to dress nicely and speak to a group of people who barely grasped the ideas you’re working with.

Fitz still hates those things. It’s like primary school all over again. Possibly one of the only upsides to SHIELD being dismantled is the end of those bloody functions.

_Bet Gonzales’ll try to bring them back. He seems like the type._

Anyway, it was during one of these “suit-and-tie meet-and-greets” that Weaver had introduced him to Agent Clint Barton. “Cadet Fitz is the one who developed the navigation system we installed in your arrows,” she told the field agent with pride.

At the time, Fitz had gotten used to a lot of reactions to his work: praise, awe, and bafflement to name a few.

Barton had seemed annoyed. "If I needed a nav system in my arrow heads I wouldn’t be much of an archer.”

The young engineer had scowled. “I doubt even  _you,_  Agent Barton, can make your arrows take four 134 degree turns and  _still_  hit the target.”

Barton’s left eyebrow raised. He’d smiled. Then he’d flicked a peanut over Fitz’s shoulder, ricocheted it off a man’s badge, and thwaped Fitz in the back of his head.

The whole thing had been stupid, Fitz admits it now. But at least he'd had the excuse of age on his side. He’d still been a teenager then, nineteen years old and finally learning that not everything that fell out of his brain was made of gold.

He knows his limitations now. Knows his strengths, weaknesses.

What he doesn’t know, as he stares at the pointed tip of a steel arrow aimed at his head, is how much Agent Barton remembers about their first meeting.

The archer smiles. “Hello Cadet. What’cha got there?”

Ah. So he does remember. Brilliant.

——

(Roughly 10 Minutes Before the Beginning)

Clint Barton remembers weird stuff. It’s kind of a part of his job. He watches, he processes, and he remembers.

For example, he remembers the grim look on his brother’s face, when they saw the bright circus flags in a field of dull green corn.

He remembers the smell of sour-cream-and-onion chips that got into his jacket during his first bar fight.

He remembers the fear and bewilderment Steve Rogers experienced at the end of  _The Sixth Sense._

Well that last one is kind of a cheap shot, but the point remains. Clint remembers weird stuff. Can’t remember to wear underwear some days, but he remembers all of that.

Still, when he spots the kid he thwaped in the head with a peanut in Union Square, it takes him a few seconds to place him.

The kid sits near the fountain eating pizza, a duffle bag by his feet and a backpack slung over both shoulders, like a good schoolboy. He’s lost the badly parted poodle hair, the baby face, but that perpetually grumpy expression? He’ll probably carry that to his grave.

Huh. Wonder what he’s doing here.

Scratch that. Don’t wonder. It’s New York City, anyone is allowed to be here if they want. It doesn’t always have to be for nefarious reasons, even if the kid is ex-SHIELD.

It’s about now when Clint notices the other guy: average size, pressed grey suit that screams “I bought this first thing when I came into the city because black suits are too suspicious.” He has a Bluetooth phone plugged into his ear, a bulge near his breast pocket that probably  _isn’t_  a wallet, and he keeps glancing at the kid over his shoulder.

Huh.

Clint adjusts the strap on his shoulder, feeling the weight of his bow resting against his shoulder blades. He really shouldn’t have been at the range today. He’d literally flown in the night before, his rib cage held together by duct tape and a few teeth barely hanging on by some old Polish dental thread. But if Clint Barton is anything, he’s a sucker for punishment. That means practice, every day, even when it hurts. Now he’s sore as hell, his arms feel like jelly, but there’s  _this kid_ , and he’s just sitting there, perfectly oblivious to the guy in the suit, and-

God dammit.

Against his better judgment, Clint eases himself onto one of the park benches, watching the two men from behind his favorite pair of sunglasses.

You know what? It’s fine. It’s rush-hour on the subway anyway. He really doesn’t want to be standing the entire way back to Brooklyn.

The kid (Cadet Fotz? _)_  finishes his pizza and is getting up to throw away the greasy plate. The park is busy today, lots of people checking out the wares of vendors and wannabe artists set up on the sidewalks. The kid takes his time walking around, his grey suit friend never very far behind.

Neither of them are very good at this whole following thing, Clint notes.

The kid (Fitz! That’s his name!) stops at the corner of the park, placing his duffle bag on the ground so he can root around in his backpack better. He pulls out an honest to god white starched handkerchief, the kind grandparents use, blows his nose, then pockets it. The man in the grey suit pretends to be busy watching a human statue.

Suddenly the kid takes off, walking briskly across 14th, headed for 6th Ave. His pursuer… Well, he pursues, jumping over the duffle bag by the park bench like it’s a dog in the street.

Clint frowns. The bag could be a problem. He remembers the kid used to be a damn good engineer, the best one at SHIELD. That didn’t mean he was still working for them.

The archer approaches the bag casually; he knows better than anyone how panic can cause panic. He bends over and cautiously unzips the top compartment.

“Hey!” someone starts yelling behind him. “Hey man, that ain’t yours!”

A Good Samaritan. Perfect.

Clint ignores him, focuses on the contents of the bag. Clothes, socks, knick-knacks, the kind of stuff a college kid’d be bringing home from his dorm room, or an agent coming home from the field. There’s a small black statue, the three monkeys of ignorance, but it’s not ticking or anything ominous like that-

“Hey man! That shit-”

Nothing here. The kid could be innocent.

“- Ain’t yours!”

But Barton’s already hoofing it down the street, chasing after the kid and the man in the grey suit. He unpacks his bow as he runs-

(“Hey man, what’re you doing?”

“Oh my god he’s got a weapon!”)

\- but wherever they are, he can’t see them.

He keeps running, past 6th, onto 7th. The crowds start thinning out, so it’s easier to spot the man in the grey. But where’s Cadet Fitz?

Suddenly Fitz is  _right there_ , ramming headlong into his pursuer. There’s a small flash of blue (Non-lethal ICERS? Really?), and the man slumps over immediately. The kid looks around in a panic, pulling the man into a kitchen alley with difficulty.

Barton sighs. Sure, everyone else notices the guy with a bow, but no one notices  _that_? Futzin New York.

By the time he makes it to the alley, the kid’s got the man covered in diner trash bags. Barton clears his throat, draws his bow, and aims it at the kid’s shoulder. No need to kill him, just maim him a little.  

“Hello Cadet. What'cha got there?”

—

(Back to the Beginning)

Fitz swallows hard against the lump in his throat. Agent Barton, also known as Hawkeye, seems bigger than he remembers. That might have something to do with the weapon he’s holding. His face looks like it had a run in with an SUV, the bruise under his right eye as purple as his shirt. Most bizarrely, the ex-field agent is also sporting frosted tips. Unemployment must be hard on the man.

Fitz knows this can go really well, or really, really terribly.

May had told them once that Barton was Fury’s man. He hopes she’s right.

Slowly he raises his hands behind his head. “My name is Agent Leopold Fitz-”

“I know your name, Cadet.”

“-I’m a SHIELD engineer working under Director Coulson.”

The archer doesn’t budge. “You just named two things that are dead and buried, so I think you need to try again.”

Fitz closes his eyes and tries to gather his wits, but it’s a bit difficult under the circumstances.  _Just breathe. Breathe deep._ “When Coulson died, Fury used alien DNA to bring him back to life.”

"Uh-huh.”

“Look, I’m not lying!” Fitz snaps. “After SHIELD fell Fury gave Coulson the directorship of the whole organization, and now-”

“Fury’s dead,” Barton says calmly, but the grip on his bow tightens, and Fitz knows he’s hit the right chord.

“He saved my life a week after SHIELD fell,” Fitz states. “Dead men can’t do that.”

It’s a tense moment. The only things Fitz can hear are the sounds of traffic and his own heartbeat, thumping against his rib cage like a wild animal. Barton stands perfectly still, poised to strike while he tries to work out the validity of the engineer’s story.

Neither of them notices the back door opening until it’s too late.

“What the futz is going on here?!”

—

Clint looks at the kid; the kid looks at him. They both look at the fry cook standing in the doorway, trash bag still in his hand.

The man’s face is red, either from the kitchen heat or anger, Clint can’t really tell. His white apron is stained with oil that’s indistinguishable from the sweat that lines his hair net. He’s not a big man, per se, but he’s also not somebody Clint  _really_ wants to deal with today.

“What the futz are you guys doing back here?” the man starts yelling, the trash bag swaying back and forth in his hand like a ball and chain. “You can’t just go around this city waving around bows and arrows man, are you nuts?”

 _Think Clint, think!_ “Official Avengers business sir,” the archer says in his most authoritative tone. “Carry on.”

The man’s face contorts, like he smells a scam. “You’re not an Avenger. My kid’s got  _all_  them Avenger toys, there inn’t a  _Robin Hood_  in there.”

Clint frowns. “Secret Avengers?”

“That’s not a thing!”

“Well you wouldn’t have heard of it, now would you?”

“Listen asshole, I’mma go right back in there and call the cops-“

“And CUT!”

Fitz put his hands down, facing the fry cook way more calmly than he should be. “Sorry about that,” he says in his chipped Scottish accent. “We’re just shooting a film.”

“You’re  _what?_ ”

It takes a nano-second for Clint to catch on, but when he does… well, even he’ll admit he’s impressed. He lowers his bow immediately, taking the arrow and tucking it back into his backpack. “Yeah, exactly. A movie. Sorry.”

“You’re not shooting a movie, where the hells the cameras?”

“It’s a go-cam,” Fitz explains quickly. “We installed it in his sunglasses. For uh- First person narration.”

“First-person what?”

“Ever seen  _Birdman_?” Clint asks, putting the bow back in his case.

“Yeah.”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“What was all that about the Avengers then?”

“Just some improv sir,” Clint replies. He adjusts his bag on his shoulder, and begins to move out of the alley. “We’ll be on our way now.” He looks to make sure Agent Fitz is following.

The cook seems convinced, but not any less angry. “You know you need a permit to film here,” the man yells at them. “This inn’t LA, you can’t just waltz back here and-“

“Sorry to disturb you!” Clint calls out, turning the corner with the kid right behind him.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Fitz breathes a sigh of relief. Clint smirks. “Don’t get too relaxed cadet,” he reminds him casually. The archer keeps a brisk pace as they make their way down the sidewalk, dodging tourists with ease.

“Yeah, sorry,” the engineer replies, doing his best not to bump into the pedestrians. He says he’s sorry, but Clint can hear the tone of pride in his voice. 

“You know if you really wanted to do it right,” the archer says. “You should’ve concealed that accent of yours.”

“Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one that got us out of that, Mr. ‘Secret Avengers’.”

Clint sighs. Yeah, that was embarrassing. The Avengers card never seems to work at Starbucks either. “Quit your whining,” he says under his breath. “I figure we’ve got about ten seconds until Mr. Meatball finds the guy you ICEd in his compost.” He crosses the road without looking at the oncoming cars, forcing Fitz to follow behind him.

The engineer’s eyes widen. “Christ, I forgot-“

“Just follow me Cadet.” There’s a subway entrance just a few yards away. If they can get there before the fry cook smells what’s cookin-

“Can’t we go back and get my bag?” Fitz asks. He’s practically jogging to keep up.

Clint rolls his eyes. “Cadet, you dropped that thing in the middle of Union Square, that one’s on you.”

“I only did it so it’d be easier to run-”

Suddenly there’s angry shouting from behind them. “HEY! HEY STOP THOSE GUYS!”

Clint curses under his breath. “Time to go.”

“Where?”

“Down the subway-“

“Hang on, I need to get my metrocard-“

“Oh for futzs sake kid!”

“Right, okay, got it now.”

Five minutes later the two men are safely on a subway heading south to Brooklyn, surrounded by oblivious New Yorkers just trying to get home on time.

The archer sighs, the kind of sigh that only comes with years of practice at accepting the universe’s sense of humor. He’s done it again: picked up another stray, as Fury would have said. But if the kid is telling the truth, then he belongs to Coulson, and Coulson is  _their man._

Or he was before he came back to life. 

Why the hell does nobody tell Clint things? He’s trustworthy, he can know things. 

Clint glances at Fitz across the aisle. He’s packed in between two oversized businessmen in cheap suits, looking incredibly small and uncomfortable. Despite the years that have passed, the kid still looks like a lost puppy. 

Another sigh. He’ll call Nat later. Until then they can crash at his place. Maybe he can even get the kid to fix a few arrows for him. As long as there isn’t a nav system to be seen, this could be fun. 


End file.
